


Yes to Me

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [12]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Devil Face (Lucifer TV), Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Light Angst, Post-Season/Series 04, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: “I want you to be… in charge, tonight.”“Of course, my darling."“And I want… your other face.”And there is silence.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 40
Kudos: 337





	Yes to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheYahwehDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheYahwehDance/gifts).



> Day 12! (little late) Prompt: Control/Monster Sex
> 
> Thanks to [Brokenjaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw) for helping me wrangle this one.
>
>> "Detective... _Chloe,_ I am the Devil."
>> 
>> "No, you're not. Not to me."
> 
> —Season 3, Episode 23: Quintessential Deckerstar 

“What do you desire?” Lucifer has asked Chloe, without affectation, nearly every night they’ve been together.

And she answers him—every desire from the simple to the complex, from the commonplace to the unusual. From those that bring a smile to her lips, to those that leave her cold with something like fear. She’s not afraid of Lucifer, no, but a small part of her will always expect judgment and anticipate scorn. But neither ever comes, no matter her answer, and she has found herself, slowly, comfortable. Comfortable with what _she_ desires, and with asking him, with the same liberating lack of shame, what he desires in return. And his answers leave her panting and aching more often than not, leading them here, to this moment.

“What do you desire?” he asks, tonight.

It’s been over a year now, but his enthusiasm never wanes in performing always this ritual, this back and forth. This chance to fulfill and be fulfilled in return. But the edge of fear returns, and she hesitates over her answer. She’s wanted this particular thing for months, actively, and probably longer still. But some part of her says there’s a wrongness to _this_ desire, though she knows it’s false. Worse, she fears that even _his_ acquiescence only goes so far. But he is always honest with her, and she wants to repay that kindness. So she takes a deep breath and lets the warmth of acceptance bolster her confidence.

“I want you to be… in charge, tonight.” This is the simpler of the requests. They have done this before, him for her and her for him as well.

“Of course, my darling,” he says softly, smiling.

“And…”

His grin widens with excitement. He has no intrinsic pull on her desires, but, when she lets him in, she knows he can feel them thrum under his skin. And she imagines, sometimes, that she can feel the same, shooting through her nerves like flames breaking against her consciousness.

She swallows a little nervously and takes his hand. “I-I want… your other face.”

And there is silence.

He blinks. His jaw twitches. He looks down at their clasped hands and back up to meet her gaze. She waits, knowing his expression means he’s processing what she said.

His mouth opens. His mouth closes. He frowns. “You want… the Devil?”

“I always want the Devil,” she says, leaning forward to kiss him. “I always want _you.”_

He returns the kiss with warmth and passion, but all too soon he pulls away. “But to see…to see?” he asks in a low, careful voice.

“Only if you want to,” she says firmly. “I don’t want it if you don’t want it too.”

He stares at her for another moment before chuckling breathlessly. He smiles a little disbelievingly, and his expression turns solemn again. “You really desire this?”

She hums and reaches up to caress his cheek. “I want you. All of you.”

“And this _with_ me being…?”

He doesn’t mince words often. She takes his face between her palms and presses her forehead against his. “I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“Entirely,” he breathes softly.

“Then trust me to know what I want and to tell you if you need to stop, yeah?”

He still seems unsure, and she considers, swiping her thumb over his bottom lip. “How about a deal?”

He blinks, then grins, on firm footing again just like she’d hoped. “A deal with the Devil, darling?”

She disentangles them, takes a step back, and nods. “Yes.”

He tilts his head, considering as she’s seen him do hundreds of times before. This may be a game, but he takes it just as seriously as any other deal. “Name your terms.”

“Your face,” she whispers, something solemn in the repetition of her desire that wasn’t there before. “Your hands on me. Your eyes, your…” She takes a deep breath. “Your skin on mine, your c-claws pressed against me.”

He looks like he wants to object, but the Devil is in the details, and he doesn’t turn down a deal without hearing them. “And what do you have to offer?”

She looks down at her shoes and then back up, meeting his gaze. She wonders if she’s imagining the beginnings of flames edging into his eyes. “Myself,” she says simply. “Anything you desire.” She bites her lip before continuing, _“Everything_ you desire.”

He is silent a beat, two, and she wonders if he’s going to go for it. But then his demeanor shifts, as quickly as it always does, and his uncertainty evaporates, replaced with a soft but firm stability. He holds out his hand and says, “You have yourself a deal.”

Bad cult movies would have her believe that lightning should strike when one makes a deal with the Devil. Ominous voices should chant questionable Latin in the background when a woman gives herself to Satan. The stuff of nightmares and witches’ sabbaths. Instead, when their hands meet, nothing happens at all except that he turns hers in his grip, bows a little dramatically, and presses a kiss to her inner wrist.

She shivers, and he pulls away, lessening the separation with another quick kiss. “Sit down, love,” he says. “Your feet must be tired from chasing down all those wretched malfeasants.”

She sits on the edge of the mattress and feels like more than the weight of her body had been taken off her.

“Recite the rules for me.”

This they have also done before—a moment of normalcy amid all these doubts. She lets herself fall into the practiced stiltedness of the words. “The stop light system. Green for everything’s good, yellow for caution, and red to stop the current action. The safe word is used to stop everything and end the scene.”

“And what _is_ the safe word?”

She smiles up at him. “Monkey bottoms.” They’ve never found better, and he _is_ rather good at working it into any conversation quite naturally.

“Excellent.” He steps up to her and loosens her hair from its tight knot, brushing it carefully from her face, gently working out a small tangle. She can feel his uncertainty in the way his hands shake ever so slightly when he touches her, but it only lessens her own nervousness. They’re in this together, after all. 

“I’m going to make you more comfortable now,” he adds, “and you are not to aid me or touch me unless I say. Do you understand?”

There’s only the barest edge of command in his words, but it sends a shiver of anticipation up her spine regardless. “Yes,” she whispers.

He kneels before her and presses a kiss to her knee before he lifts her leg and unzips her boot, sliding it away. He repeats the process with the other foot, an expression of utter concentration on his face at odds with the simplicity of the motion. There’s something arresting about the intensity and focus in his eyes, and she lets the feeling sweep over her as he removes her socks and moves to carefully slip the button on her jeans through the denim and free, sliding down the zipper.

She can’t help the slightest motion of her hips, slipping against sateen to help the denim slide down her legs, but his hands press in, flat against her thighs.

He looks up at her, eyes sparkling. “Naughty, naughty, Detective.”

She whines, trying to shimmy down the bed a bit further as his fingers stroke ever so gently against her.

“Didn’t I tell you to not move?” It’s not really a question.

“Lucifer…” she murmurs. He’s hardly touched her, but she’s already throbbing between her legs, her nipples stiff under her bra, the slight breeze in the room caressing her skin.

He frowns. “Since you’re having such difficulty following orders, I’m going to help you.” He pulls away, standing back up to look down at her. “Stay still.”

She makes a bereft noise but forces her hands to remain pressed against the sheets, watching as he disappears behind a stone pillar into the main living space.

“You know…” His voice echoes from over by the bar where he’s clearly taking more time than necessary. “Masochists are _such_ a challenge. So very complicated.” He sounds overjoyed by the thought.

“I’m not a masochist, Lucifer.” An automatic denial.

“Aren’t you, though?” He rounds the corner, drink in one hand, the other clutched around a set of supple leather cuffs. “You knew the rules—simple, easy to follow—and yet you insist on disobeying.”

The hypocrisy of that is staggering, but he’s watching her with hunger in his eyes, and the thought disappears from her mind. She wonders idly whether he keeps the shackles stored under the bar or if it’s one of his less-than-divine powers to pull sex toys right out of thin air. She squeezes her thighs together marginally, and he gives her a look of soft chastisement.

“Are those my punishment?” she asks. She does love that pair. Loves them on herself nearly as much as she loves them on him.

“Oh, these?” he asks, as if he’s forgotten he’s holding them. “No, no, no, this is to help you _avoid_ punishment.” He takes a long drink and sets the scotch on a side table, deliberately trailing his fingertip along the rim. “A favor from the Devil, if you will.” His eyes flash red, and she chokes on a breath.

She’s reminded of her _other_ desire and tightens her fingers in the sheets to try to stop from moving.

He instructs her without words to lie down in the center of the bed. He cuffs her wrists together, then raises them above her head. He pulls a conveniently located rope down from the headboard and loops it around the hinge of the shackles. He tests the tightness of the bindings, and she squirms, suddenly impatient.

“Almost done,” he murmurs, brushing her hair back from her face.

Apparently satisfied, he returns to the foot of the bed where he retrieves ropes that are already attached to each far corner and wraps them carefully, one-by-one, around her ankles. She is pulled against the bed, enough that she can’t move except to rattle her proverbial chains, which she does, heat rushing down her spine when she realizes she’s well and truly stuck.

He smirks at her, but then his face falls, and he turns away, taking another drink. “Are you certain you want this?” He frowns. “I wouldn’t be upset if you—”

“Please…” She waits until he looks at her so she can meet his gaze. _Can this be part of the game?_

He takes a slow breath and nods.

“Please, Lucifer. Please, I’ll be—”

Ravaged flesh tears up from beneath his collar, gouging along the edge of his jaw.

“—good.”

His hell flesh asserts itself with a soft susurrus of sound.

And the Devil is there in the room with her.

He stands, unmoving, as she watches him. He no longer has the overly muscled yet withered chest from before he returned to Hell; he is proportioned much the same as he normally is. No longer do bone spikes emerge from his spine, though she doesn’t think his other set of wings are gone, just dormant. Chloe has dreamed of this, of _Lucifer_ , since she saw him in the loft, where Cain lay dead. The dreams were frightening, at first, as she had dealt—and not dealt—with the realizations. But even from the beginning there had been a strange intensity, matched only by the other dream, the one where he was horned and submissive. As their relationship has slowly repaired and strengthened and deepened, the dream has become clearer and clearer.

She lies on the Devil’s bed, unable—or unwilling—to move as he does what he likes to her. She slowly came to realize that it wasn’t he who changed a nightmare to a dream. No. It was herself, how she viewed the heat in his gaze and her own vulnerability. There’s no fear of him, now, only a sweet uncertainty wrapped lovingly in trust, though her heart still beats faster when he takes a slow, careful step forward.

She feels a flush creep up her neck and over her face, and she knows her own skin has been painted red, but he stops, hesitant again. She knows he’s still uncertain about this, and she doesn’t want to push, but impatience forces a soft whine from her throat. The fire in his eyes blazes hotter.

He hums, confidence returning, and kneels on the bed between her legs, near enough she imagines she can feel hellfire radiating off him. His hands creep up to her thighs, and she pulls against her ankle restraints, trying to move toward the warmth. He observes her, amusement cutting through his misgivings, and she smiles. He withdraws to adjust his cufflinks, and a familiar grin tugs at an unfamiliar face. “Enjoying yourself?”

She wants to scoff and talk back, but he not only looks like the Devil, he sounds like him. The subtle growl underlining the words makes her shiver.

He chuckles darkly. “Where were we?” he asks, delighted, playing clawed fingertips against the denim of her jeans and up her leg. And up and up…

She hums, and he echoes the sound, reaching between her legs. “Be good, now, darling, and _don’t move.”_

She bites her lip to remain still as he takes the zipper the rest of the way down. He takes her hips in his hands, then, and even through the denim his touch sends flames through her veins. She tries to press into him but can’t find the leverage.

He tightens his hands on the waistband of her jeans and slowly pulls them down, the rustle of denim against skin the only sound but her halting breaths. The fabric clings to her thighs for a moment before he grabs the open flaps and pulls the pants apart at the fly, denim ripping loudly.

He brings his claws to bear beneath her, and she gasps. “What are you doing?”

“Anything I desire, you said,” he tells her, not looking up from where he’s carefully tearing her jeans into two halves.

“I _liked_ those pants.” She pouts, and he glances at her face, a frisson of concern peeking through his smugness.

“Color, love?”

She sticks out her lower lip. “Green.” He’ll buy her replacements anyway. He’s been slowly ‘fixing’ her wardrobe, as he calls it, since they got together, and she has to admit, she hasn’t been disappointed with any of his choices. He chuckles again and slowly—almost painfully slowly—peels the left half of her pants open by the seam. Her breathing quickens with the brush of sharp claws over her skin. He turns to the other side and repeats the process, and when he finally flings the tattered remains of her jeans behind him, she’s shaking, pulling her ankle restraints taut.

His hands slip back up her body, and he reaches for the hem of her blouse, gently brushing the front of her underwear. She gasps, hips trying to jerk but only managing a full-body shudder. He takes either side of her collar in hand and, with an almost feral grin, tears her shirt open, buttons snapping and flying and landing next to her on the sheets.

He raises the browless ridge over his left eye, daring her to object. But his hands are hovering over her still-clothed breasts, and she can’t pay attention to anything else. With him kneeling between her legs, leaning over her, she feels surrounded and contained and _safe._ Safe, here, in the Devil’s hold. With every bit of core strength she has, she arches her back, and her breasts barely skim his red, ravaged hands.

He pulls away immediately, and smiles his most indulgent smile. “I said no moving, did I not?”

“I-I…”

He sighs dramatically and stands, leaving her bereft. He walks back to the table and takes another drink. She tracks the rippling of his throat when he swallows, and a soft, involuntary whimper leaves her lips.

“Lucifer, _please_ …” He’s hardly touched her, but every inch of skin that’s known his rough, scarred flesh is burning with desire. Every cell of her body yearning to press against his.

He observes her over the edge of the glass. “Pleading with the Devil, love?”

She nods. “Yes, _yes,_ I’ll do—”

“Oh, another deal, is it?” He sets his glass down and puts his hands in his pockets, careful to avoid cutting into the fabric. His clothing, _his_ armor, remains intact. He tsks. “Racking up quite a tab, aren’t we?”

She nods, and he runs his tongue along the inside of his strangely yellow teeth.

“You’ve already offered up your body”—he watches her shamelessly as she writhes against the sheets—”what else could you possibly offer me?”

She licks her lips helplessly, and his gaze sharpens immediately. Emboldened by the response, she nods to herself. “My soul.”

The edge of anger creeps over his expression, and she revels in it. He growls, and his eyes burn brighter. “ _I don’t deal in souls_ ,” he hisses.

She smirks. “I know, but it hardly matters anyway.”

His eyes narrow, fire creeping over his sclera. “And why is _that?”_

“You already have it.”

He’s back on the bed before she even sees him move, clothed knees pressed against her bare inner thighs. He looms over her, panting, and reaches out, taking her chin in his hand and pulling it up to meet his burning gaze.

She gasps.

“I will not tolerate your impertinence,” he says in a low voice.

She’s struck by the urge to stick her tongue out at him and indulges in it.

He looks down at her scornfully before carefully trailing his fingertips down her throat, between her breasts, over her belly, and stopping at the waistband of her underwear, so close to where she wants him.

She groans.

He laughs. “Devil got your tongue?”

“Not yet,” she retorts

He laughs again, but then turns serious. “Are you going to be good now, love, or”—he plucks at the fabric and rubs the damp cloth between his fingers—“do you still desire punishment?”

“I want _you_ ,” she tells him sharply, and she tenses her arms, her legs, raising her torso up a scant inch to press against every bit of him she can. He raises onto his knees and places his palm, flat, against her stomach, pressing her back into the sheets. She struggles against the weight but eventually the tensing and bracing get the best of her, and she sags into cool sateen. She breathes slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Color?” he asks.

She gazes up into his eyes; this face is becoming more familiar by the second. “Green.”

His fingers drift up between her breasts, claws pressing delicately against soft, fragile skin. “Anything?” he whispers, biting at his bottom lip.

“ _Please.”_

Narrow lines of fire open up over her back and shoulders when he takes the band of her bra in hand and yanks upward. She hisses from the pain, and is about to shout out a _yellow_ when hands that are no longer hesitant cup her newly exposed breasts. He soothes away her aches with his warm hands, and she cries out from the rough texture of his palms.

“You make the most beautiful sounds,” he whispers in that hoarse voice of his, that voice that commands demons and entices humans. This _face_ that breaks men’s minds and haunts the dreams of the guilty. He—all of him—is hers now. And she is his.

There’s no worry left in the flayed and scarred lines of his face, but he is gentler with her than he has been in a long time, as if she were so fragile she might snap under his monstrous hands. He _could_ break her, easily. He is vulnerable around her, but she’s tied to his bed, unable to move. He could do anything to her. She _asked_ for him to do _anything_ to her. Everything to her.

There is still fear, buried somewhere deep—some part of her that thinks it’s wrong to want this, to want more. But he pinches at her nipples, kneads her breasts, careful to avoid cutting into her skin with his claws, and she sighs, giving into the pleasure. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, feeling her clit throb where it’s still trapped beneath wet cotton.

He is so impatient most of the time, so much so that sometimes, watching him play with the Newton’s cradle on her desk, glancing over at him as he shuffles in his seat during a stakeout, it seems impossible that he has lived for eons and will live for eons more. But here, in their bed, his patience is infinite.

He strokes her stomach, runs his fingertips over her ribs, holds her hips to tease her. She shivers, and he leans down further, trying a kiss. His lips are beyond chapped, and his tongue is warped and strange, but he still tastes like him, still moves like him. And as their tastes mingling, he is finally bold.

He slips his tongue past her teeth, licking at the roof of her mouth, withdrawing to pull her lower lip between his somewhat sharp teeth, but not nearly hard enough to break the skin. Her eyes open, and once again the fear rises. His face is so close to hers, his _eyes_ are so close to hers, but in their depths there is love as well as fire, and she relaxes, letting him do as he wishes. His hands return to her breasts as he kisses over her jaw, up her cheek, over to her ear to nip her earlobe and breathe roughly against her skin.

He sucks a bruise under her ear, and she gasps, pulling at the shackles. But they hold firm, and the feeling of being restrained pools yet more heat between her legs. It’s hard to focus on anything but where they touch, where she wants him to touch. He raises another hickey next to the first, and an idle thought occurs to her that she maybe ought to worry about how she’s going to cover the bruises before it’s washed away by the feeling of his teeth on her throat.

She throws her head back and arches her spine, moaning loudly, leaving herself open to him. He growls, the vibrations stuttering along her nerves, and bites at where neck meets shoulder—carefully, so carefully, considering she well knows the strength of him. A wave of sensation rushes through her, her skin prickling, so sensitive she can’t stand the fabric of his trousers touching her thighs, his shirt collar brushing her chest. Her panties, soaked and clinging to where she clenches and releases helplessly.

“Please,” she whispers, voice too hoarse to pitch it louder. “Please, Lucifer. Please, I need…”

“Shh,” he breathes against her neck, sucking at the place he bit. “I’m not finished yet.”

He slowly, _slowly_ makes his way down her body, raising hickeys over her collarbones and breasts, taking her nipples between his teeth to lick and suck and drive her wild. His hands leave shallow scratches down the undersides of her arms, over her hip bones. When he dips his tongue into her navel, his fingertips playing with the elastic of her underwear, she huffs out a breath, hips trying and failing to rock.

She needs… she needs…

He bypasses where she wants him to suck a bruise into her inner thigh, and she chokes on a sob. His hands clasp her knees, teasing at the undersides, and she shivers. His preternaturally hot breath ghosts over her core..

In and out, she breathes. In and out. In…

His thumb brushes over her underwear. She clenches around nothing.

In and out. In and out. In and…

“Oh, _Lucifer,”_ she groans, the last of her control snapping. Her hands twist in the leather shackles to grab the rope binding her to the headboard, her toes curl, and she pulls in on herself as much as she can, coming, moaning, crying out, almost entirely untouched between her legs.

She blinks herself back to awareness a minute—or an hour—later to a hand propping up her head and the lip of a glass at her mouth. She takes a sip of the water and flops back to the mattress in a heap of unsated arousal.

“Color?” a voice asks out of the peripheral of her awareness.

She licks her lips and considers the question. “Green.”

“Excellent,” Lucifer whispers into her ear. “I’m going to take my time with you.”

“Haven’t you already?” she mumbles, breaths still coming in pants.

“Oh, love, I’m just getting started.”

After he checks the fit and tightness of her bindings, loosening and altering them, massaging out any mild discomfort they may have caused, he returns to kneel between her legs. His hands are bolder, now, skimming up her inner thighs, hooking into the waistband of her underwear to grant her a moment of sweet friction that ends almost before it starts. She squirms in his hold, able to think nothing but, _Not enough. Not enough,. Not enough._

He leans down further and presses his tongue over her clit. She hisses and yanks at her restraints, but they hold. His tongue dips down to trace her inner lips before returning to her clit, licking her through the cotton with long, precise strokes of his tongue. He brings her to a small peak this way, one that still makes her eyes roll up as her hips jerk uselessly.

Finally, he rips off her underwear, the elastic snapping with a line of sensation over her hips, and buries his tongue into her. She’s so wet as to be dripping, and the sounds he makes cause her to clench around him almost immediately. The rough, unfamiliar arch of his nose grinds ceaselessly against her clit, and he snarls into her, making her groan desperately. His tongue presses deep and filling, and her body shakes with the effort of trying to press closer. He rubs quick circles over her inner muscles, and she comes with a shout, her hearing fuzzing out. She wakes to lips latched onto her clit, dragging her into a rhythm of sucking and stroking that pulls her back under immediately, endless waves of pleasure breaking against her.

She’s breathing hard when she comes back to herself, a dedicated mouth still licking her through the aftershocks. She wants to push his head away, but she still can’t move. She endures the overstimulation when he delves his tongue back into her, applying firm pressure to her trembling walls. She grits her teeth and keens, clit throbbing and swollen and beginning to ache more with pain than pleasure. 

She comes, again, impossibly, the muscles in her arms and legs growing sore. When he runs his teeth over her folds and holds her sensitive clit between them, she shivers, unable to catch her breath. His tongue strokes over her, and her eyes burn, tears pricking at them. And still he presses forward, tasting her, mouthing at her, dragging her to the edge inexorably. His lips fasten around her again, and he sucks _hard._

“Red!” she shouts, and he pulls away immediately. He hesitates over her, but when she keens, he cups her cheek, rubbing slow circles over her hip. She slows her breathing, blinking rapidly, and leans into his stabilizing touch.

 _“Shit,”_ she whispers when she finally feels capable of speech again.

“Are you alright?” She’s safeworded out of things a few times before, and he took it in stride, withdrawing but not pulling away, helping her back to a place of calm. But there’s real fear in his eyes now, almost pure black with how low the fires have burned.

“I’m… okay,” she manages. He retrieves the water glass, and she takes another drink. “We can keep going.”

“Are you certain?”

She tenses her thighs and groans involuntarily. His hand ghosts over her vulva, and she shakes, edging the border between pleasure and pain. “Maybe…maybe not.”

“Do you want me to untie you?”

She nods, and he first removes the robes from her ankles before unfastening the loop he tied around the hinge of the cuffs. The lock _snicks_ open under his hands, and he tosses the shackles off the bed. Normally, he would massage the tension out of her shoulders and hips, extending her pleasure through soft touches and caresses. But his skin is raw and rough, his fingers are tipped with claws, and he does neither, can only offer a comforting if tentative hand on her knee as she stretches out the kinks in her neck and back.

He helps her to the bathroom, and something almost like shame crawls over his face when she winces slightly from the pressure of the toilet paper. They have done this before, and she has been sore before, but he’s never been afraid of these human inconveniences. He’s never blamed himself for them.

“I _asked,”_ she says softly into the mirror after she washes her hands, staring at the bruises and scratches that mark her neck and chest and arms before her gaze drifts to him, strangely incongruous in his fancy, modern bathroom. The Devil is the stuff of shadows and dreams, not this well-lit, stark reality. Or so she’s certain he believes.

“Pardon?” It’s almost impressive how small he’s making himself look, slouching against the wall behind her. It hits her, suddenly, that he’s still fully clothed. That maybe _that_ is entirely intentional.

“You didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for.”

He nods, but it’s clear he doesn’t believe it.

She turns around and marches up to him, heedless of her nakedness. “You can turn back.” He blinks. She sighs. “It’s not fun if we aren’t both enjoying it.”

He frowns. “I…” His mouth shuts, opens, shuts again. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says eventually, glancing at himself in the mirror. “This body is made for pain, not pleasure.”

“Oh, Lucifer.” She wraps her arms around his waist and presses her cheek against his chest. She holds him until he tentatively returns the hug, then tightens her own grip. “It’s _your_ body. You’re the one who decides what it’s for.”

He stares down at her, baffled in that soft way he falls into when someone shows him love he wasn’t expecting. “But this is my punishment.”

“I thought you…”

He shakes his head, and his claws clack against each other behind her back. “My _self-_ punishment.”

The place where he hides all his pain and grief and rage and regret. How strange it is that it’s painted across his face, not buried deep in his soul. How amazing that he’s willing to show it to her.

She presses a kiss over his heart, feeling the steady beat under her lips. “Do you know why I asked for this?”

“Well, you… I… N-no,” he says in a rush, looking even more confused.

“Because _this”—_ she reaches up and traces his lips, his cheek, his brow—”is part of who you are. And I love who you are.”

He laughs, but not cruelly, surprised like he was the first time she told him she loved him. And he’s hiding heartbreak behind it too, just like that night on the balcony when he left her to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

_I love you. Please don’t leave._

But he had, using every cruelty ever inflicted onto him to keep her safe, to keep them all safe. Using this body, this _face_ to survive long enough to return to her. His hand comes up to take hers, to entwine their fingers against his cheek, and the motion bolsters her into speech.

“And…”

“And?” He turns his head and kisses her palm, settling his mood if not the issue itself. But that will take more time than this, time she’ll gladly give.

“I had a dream,” she says simply. “I was lying on your bed, and you… took what you wanted.”

His brow furrows; it’s a mark of his progress with Linda that he doesn’t interrupt her. Doesn’t turn away.

“And at first, it was… frightening”—his fingers tighten around hers—”but I came to realize that I wanted that, that I wanted _you_ like that.”

“Detective…”

She inhales sharply. “I told you once, before I knew who you were, that I could let my guard down around you. That you make me vulnerable.”

She rises onto her toes to press a kiss to his lips, and he hisses in a breath. She brings her free hand up to cup his other cheek. “This body on mine, all your rough edges… It makes me _feel_ the trust I have in you. It makes me believe that I could show you all my broken parts, and you’d understand.”

“Of course, I would,” he whispers fervently. “Of course, I will.”

She presses her hands a little firmer into his cheeks for a moment before pulling away. “Why don’t we just go to bed?”

She returns to the sink to brush her teeth, and he comes up behind her, untangling her hair with careful hands. She leans against him after she’s finished, and he surprises her by gently grabbing her chin and pulling her head up to meet his gaze. “You said _anything,_ right?”

The corners of her lips raise as she catches his meaning, and she takes a second to consider the soreness between her legs. It barely hurts at all now, and she decides she can risk it. She turns in his grasp, grabs his shoulders, and drags herself up his body, whispering into his mouth, _“Everything.”_

Her ass is resting on the cold counter while he presses his tongue past her lips before she even has time to think. He is finally, _finally_ as loud and exuberant as he normally is, moaning into their kiss, skimming her hips with his hands. She pushes his jacket down his arms, and he doesn’t even bother unbuttoning his shirt before he yanks it off, scattering buttons over the tile. She explores the new yet familiar territory of his chest as his lips trail from her mouth to her neck, licking at the marks he left. She shivers, feeling the tension in his stomach when she strokes down to his belt buckle. She gives him a beat to stop her, but he lets her unfasten it, lets her unbutton his pants and pull them down around his knees.

They break apart as his cock hits air, and they both look down at it, sticking incongruously out of his slacks. She had been worried, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she might find him distasteful in this state. The last thing she wants is to bring judgement and scorn into this moment. But he is still Lucifer, and he is still beautiful, even if his length is painted in scarlet and russet. Even if the scars continue here, leaving him raw. Even if the veins twist close to the surface. The shocked pleasure that slackens his jaw and makes his eyes fall closed when she takes him in hand is certainly familiar. Her free hand slips between her own legs to tease herself, and it is this that seems to remind him that he was supposed to be in charge.

He bats her hand away from him and sinks to his knees, tracing her inner lips with his tongue, suckling at her clit. “I need you to help me with this, darling,” he murmurs against her thigh, reaching up to hold her hand in his. “I don’t think _my_ fingers would be a good idea right now.”

“No,” she agrees on a moan as he guides two of her fingers to press inside, leading her into a rough rhythm. He parts her legs further, and applies gentle, carefully placed pressure on her clit, soothing any potential ache.

“Stretch yourself for me, hm? Now, scissor your fingers. _Yes,_ just like that. Do you think you can take another?”

She moans and pants and slides three fingers inside, crooking them to catch her g-spot as he talks her through every movement. When he decides she’s had enough, he pulls her hand away and rises. He kicks his shoes under the counter, yanks off his socks, and throws his slacks across the room.

He stands there, between her legs, radiating heat and joy, and there’s something darkly beautiful in the uninterrupted lines of him. If this body is painted with the tarnish of his sins, then they are finer than all the silver of virtue. Muscles ripple in waves of crimson as he stares at her. She sees fire and blood and a chaotic, endless fall. A kingdom of ashes and torment and death. His cruelty and his kindness. His ruthlessness and his mercy. And she wants all of it. She reaches for his hand to ground herself, and he clings to her in return, both standing at a much less tragic, though still momentous, edge.

When he lines himself up and presses inside, she gasps at the heat and the slight roughness, but when he freezes, she hooks her ankles behind him, encouraging him forward. His eyes burn past red to roiling orange, and his jaw clenches in a grimace of pleasure. He is slow and steady and when he bottoms out, he groans, long and low and harsh. It is rapidly becoming her favorite sound. His face falls against her shoulder, and she cradles his head as he begins to thrust. The power of him between her legs makes her gasp, and there’s lightning shooting down her spine, up to rattle in her teeth She shuts her eyes against the intensity of it, mapping out the lines and divots of his skull.

Their pace remains slow as they whisper encouragements and reassurances to each other, rocking their hips in counterpoint. He mouths at her shoulder, lips trailing down to seek out her breasts and suckle her nipples. The change in angle makes her cry out, bracing her free hand on the counter to grind against him.

Slowly, their rhythm accelerates until the sound of their bodies meeting echoes off the tiles, his panting breaths painting heat between her breasts. Her head bows, lips pressing graceless kisses to the crown of his head. And this—this is what she wanted. All her vulnerability on display, her hands and lips and eyes desperate for whatever she can feel and taste and touch.

“I’m close,” she warns, and he takes her wrist in his hand again to guide it between her legs. To press their fingers together against her clit and drive her to a climax that sparks heat behind her eyes in every shade of red that forms him. He moans in the ragged voice of the Devil, and she does not turn away from his supposed ugliness as his hips snap into her faster and faster. She does not turn away from who he is as his head comes up, his fiery eyes meet hers, and he falls apart with her name on his scarred, immortal lips, carrying her with him, nothing left in her mind but, _Yes to me. Yes to me. Yes to me._

When it’s over, when they break apart to clean up and gather themselves, he is not suddenly the angel in his ecstasy. She did not heal his wounds with the magic between her legs. Their last kiss before they retire to the bedroom does not turn him from monster to man. It was the man that she fell in love with, but it’s the monster that holds her soul in his scarred, clawed hands.

And it is _everything_ she wants.


End file.
